


Bought and Paid For

by wendymarlowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - D/s, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, BDSM, Bondage, CBT, Dominance, Food Kink, M/M, Riding Crop, Submission, Subspace, flogger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-10 09:53:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2020587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D/s AU - John Watson is a sub-for-hire, working off the debt Harry accumulated while he was off in Afghanistan.  Sherlock Holmes rents his services for the night as an escort to Mycroft's fancy party (and a thumb of the nose to his brother).  John proves to be even more interesting than Sherlock expected, though, just as Sherlock proves to be not as frightening a dominant as John had feared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself I shouldn't jump into something new so soon after finishing my last big fic, but I couldn't wait :-) I'm trying to keep a bit ahead on this one as I write, so I'm going to *attempt* to update a chapter a week. (No promises on everything else!)
> 
> A note on consent in this universe - as much as I've found some fantastic D/s AU stories out there, the inherent consent problems always bothered me a bit. In this story, John goes into his line of work willingly and Sherlock respects that. All their interactions - physical and otherwise - are predicated on mutual respect as human beings regardless of their other inclinations.
> 
> Aiming for 15-20K on this one - we'll see how close I get :-)

John Watson very nearly missed his chance to meet the World's Only Consulting Detective. He sat on his lumpy mattress in his dingy call-room and massaged his thigh with both hands, trying to will some of the stiffness out of the muscles. _Four weeks._ Nearly a month of living here in this hellhole, trying to will up the nerve to volunteer his body every night, and never quite being sure whether he should be disappointed or relieved when none of the clients even spared him a second glance.

It's not that he wasn't trying – his contract said he had to, and if there was something John actually still had for himself, it was his bloody honor. He'd promised to see this through, to work at Madam Irene's bloody brothel and bloody well whore himself out as often as needed to pay off the bloody massive debts Harry had incurred while he was away, and now he was four weeks into his bloody contract and it was becoming obvious that a broken-down ex-army ex-doctor ex- _somebody_ wasn't anyone the clients of Adler's bloody well wanted to associate with. _Bloody hell._

Still, it was nearly seven, which meant it was time for muster downstairs. It was easier, somehow, to think of his new position in military terms – his superiors said go, so he'd go. They (well, _she_ ) said kneel, so he'd kneel. Surely _suck some stranger's cock and pretend to enjoy it_ wasn't that much of a stretch.

Right. He went.

***

The dark-haired stranger looked dreadfully out-of-place in the ostentatious parlor. Irene Adler tended toward conspicuous displays of taste – not just one gilt-edged chair, but a whole regiment of them. Not just velvet curtains, but curtains and valences and draperies and a fabulously ugly velvet-lined abstract art piece over the mantel which would have screamed _tacky_ in any other setting, but at Adler's just shouted _“rich posh look at me spend your money here.”_ Everything designed to overwhelm, to intimidate.

The tall stranger, on the other hand, didn't seem much impressed by any of it. His crisp suit fit him perfectly, hinting at a lean build and a catlike grace as he moved. Had to be bespoke. The man came from money, then, and a great deal of it. Privilege as well, from the angle he held his head, nearly looking down his nose at Madam Irene. Nobody looked down at her like that – John could count on one hand the number of clients he'd ever seen even look her in the eye. She was a true dominant, a damn strong one, which meant the stranger was either frighteningly powerful or completely tone-deaf when it came to social rank. Based on the expression on the man’s face, John would have given even odds on either.

“Just for the evening,” the stranger was saying. John sat in his assigned chair – back corner, less likely to be seen and distract from the more attractive personal servants on display – and tried to watch without being obvious about it. Madam Irene was giving the stranger a long, assessing look.

“Public?” she asked.

“Formal benefit my brother is throwing.” The man didn't quite manage to hide his sneer at the word _brother_.

“Ah.” Madame Adler smiled – her calculating smile – and gestured elegantly toward the array of servants. “Your choice, of course – any of my employees would be more than capable of providing a suitable escort. Although, if you'd like my input . . .” The man arched an eyebrow and she let her statement trail off into nothingness.

“Not necessary. This is a rather unique situation, which I'd prefer not to explain in detail.” He turned away from her and stalked toward the rows of chairs, eyeing each servant in turn, hands clasped behind his back as if casually out for a stroll. There was something blatantly _dangerous_ about him which had the hair at the nape of John's neck standing on end long before the man made his way past everyone else and came to stand before him.

“Ah.” His eyes narrowed and he stared at John for a long moment. “This one is new, correct?”

Madame Adler cleared her throat. “A few weeks, yes. He's not been contracted out yet.”

“And he's a sub.”

Her smile started to look a bit forced. “They all are, as you well know. Did you want a switch? You said on the phone you'd prefer-”

“No, this is fine.” The man never took his gaze off John. “I find this one intriguing. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John blinked, taking a moment to sort out the fact that the last question was directed at him. “Sorry? Sir?”

The man's eyes hardened, and he tilted his chin up a bit higher. **“Kneel.”**

John's knees hit the ground before he even registered the dominant's command. He just barely retained enough composure to keep his eyes lowered and his mouth from gaping open at the strength behind the single word. Distantly, he was aware of the fact that he hadn't been able to kneel properly since before his injury, that he was now doing it with no pain whatsoever-

“He'll do.” The man twirled and wandered back toward Madame Adler, John apparently forgotten. “Draw up the paperwork – I might as well borrow him until morning; could have need for him later.”

“Of course.” Madame Adler snapped for her personal sub to come attend her. John kept his eyes averted, couldn't see what they were doing, could barely hear the murmur of their low conversation over the buzzing in his ears-

“Come.” The man snapped his fingers mere inches from John's right ear, startling him out of – well, something, anyway. “My taxi is waiting just outside the door – go sit in the back until I'm done here. You won't need your toy kit; I have my own.”

And that was how John Watson was contracted out to Sherlock Holmes for his very first night as a pleasure servant.


	2. Chapter 2

“So which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John forced himself not to look up at his first-ever client. “I – Afghanistan, sir.” The curiosity rose like bile in his chest, but it wasn't a servant's place to question the person buying his services, so he kept his lips tightly pressed together and left _“How the fuck did you know that?”_ stay unsaid. Along with _“Who the hell are you, anyway?”_ and _“I don't actually know what I'm doing, you know”_ and a whole host of other things which would probably have gotten his contract at Adler's canceled and his sister's mountain of debt returned to her.

The man caught John's jaw in a tight grip and forced his face upwards. “Look at me.”

John looked.

And the man's expression softened. “Interesting,” he murmured. “Wounded in action, then. Not the leg – back? Shoulder?”

“Shoulder,” John confirmed. “Sir.”

“You’ve been back two – no, three months. Came home to find a brother had been pissing away the family fortune. Drugs, probably, or alcohol. Not that there’d been that much fortune to begin with, but enough to set you back more than your army pension would account for. Selling yourself as a personal servant was the most expedient way to get paid up-front rather than over time, which was necessary because he would have gone to prison otherwise. How am I doing so far?”

John huffed out a stunned breath. “That's . . . astounding. Brilliant, actually.”

And it may have been his imagination, but the man sat up slightly straighter. Proud of himself. “Shall I keep going?”

“Sister,” John muttered.

“Pardon?”

“Harry's my sister.” John couldn't look his client in the eye anymore, had to settle for staring somewhere in the vicinity of his chin. Technically following orders, but infinitely safer than letting those piercing eyes look right through him any longer. “I did spend four years in Afghanistan, I did get shot in the shoulder, I did come home three months ago, and Harry did drink herself into a pretty big hole while I was gone. But I have no brothers - it's just the two of us.”

“Ah.” The man contemplated him for a moment. “What's she doing now?”

_Drying out at Clara's, hopefully._ “We're not close.” 

“And yet you traded a year of your life – of your freedom – to save her. _Fascinating._ ” He paused a few seconds longer, lost in thought, then stuck out his hand in what had to be a parody of a handshake. “Sherlock Holmes.”

John eyed it with suspicion. He was a pleasure servant, a submissive, a glorified prostitute – there was no reason to-

“Take it,” the man – Sherlock Holmes – commanded. “You're new to this, and you feel more natural exchanging a greeting as equals rather than the more traditional methods between contracted servant and client. Plus it would be awkward to go through Mycroft's interminable benefit without actually knowing each other's names.”

He took it. “John Watson.” And then almost forgot to add the rest. “Err. John Watson, bond-servant to Irene Adler's House of Pleasure, personnel number 4267. Sorry. First time I've ever had the occasion to introduce myself properly. Sir.”

“You'll find very little 'proper' about me,” Sherlock Holmes replied. “As long as you keep my interest, you'll do fine.”

The taxi rumbled to a stop in front of a small shop on a somewhat quiet street. Sherlock Holmes paid the cabbie, unlocked a neatly-painted door adjacent to the shop labeled “221,” and ushered John inside. The stairs presented a bit of a problem but not an insurmountable challenge, and John managed to climb without making any actual verbal noises of discomfort.

Whatever he might have been expecting from his new client, the flat (“221B” according to the internal door) was definitely not it. The man in Madame Adler’s drawing room had looked so put together – not a likely occupant for the hurricane-wracked disaster they were standing in once they reached the top of the stairs. Sherlock barely paused, though, merely swept off his greatcoat and indicated with a nod of his head for John to follow him further into the flat. Bedroom, presumably. At Madame Adler's, he'd indicated he only wanted John as a consort for some sort of public function, but did this mean-

“Hurry up,” Sherlock called. “We've only got forty minutes before we need to leave, and I still need to dress you.”

***

Having another man's hands on him was odd, but given what John had been expecting to do for the evening, it could have been much worse. Sherlock stripped John quickly, all the way down to his horrible too-sheer red pants (the closest thing to a “uniform” Madame Adler required of her employees), leaving him embarrassed and chilled and a bit turned on and nude except for the simple chain bearing his dog tags which he never took off and had been hoping to avoid dealing with. It was probably inevitable, given his new profession, but four weeks of nobody showing interest meant he hadn’t had to address the issue so far.

He should have known that wouldn’t last - Sherlock’s eyes lit up when he saw them, and he immediately extended an imperious hand.

“Give.”

John hesitated - surely he wasn’t obligated to give up his personal possessions just because someone contracted him for the evening? - but Sherlock just waggled his fingers and glared and John realized even if this wasn’t strictly allowed, there really wasn’t much he could do about it. John slipped the chain over his head and dropped the dog tags into Sherlock’s palm. He felt truly naked for the first time since before Afghanistan.

“O-negative. Frequent blood donor, then, you seem the type. Eight-digit service number - an officer. Captain?”

John nodded silently.

“Ah.” Sherlock’s gaze flicked from the dog tags to the ugly mess of scar tissue scrawled across John’s left pectoral, then his expression cleared. “Doctor! I should have seen it sooner.”

“Sorry, how did you-”

“It’s obvious, clearly!” Sherlock spoke rapidly, his eyes bright. “Your service number puts you squarely within the numerical range for army officers. Your wound is rough, though - not treated properly at the time. Why? Because you were caught away from base, probably ambushed. On a specific mission, then. Most likely scenario is that you were with a medical evac team, attempting to extract someone else’s unit. The angle of the scarring indicates you tended to the wound yourself, in substandard conditions, and weren’t able to completely avoid infection. Doctor, then, not nurse - there was no one more capable of treating it for you, even though you had to do it with your non-dominant hand. Fascinating - that’s excellent for my purposes tonight. Here.”

John stared blankly at the pair of trousers Sherlock was holding out. Part of him - a very large part - was tempted to land a nice left hook on the man’s jaw and then storm out of the flat in a huff, clothes or no. Having his entire service record _dissected_ like that was . . . mortifying. And absolutely aggravating. _None of his damn business what I did in Afghanistan._ At least Sherlock hadn’t started in on the men John _hadn’t_ been able to save - his legs might not have been able to hold him-

“I’m sorry.”

The words snapped him back to the present. “Pardon?”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said with apparent sincerity. “I’ve been told it’s rude of me to do that and that I ought to apologize when it happens. I wasn’t mocking you or your military service. The dog tags are perfect for tonight, though, and I do hope you’ll permit me to use them.”

 _Use them._ John’s stomach gave a lurch at that. “They’re not a sex toy.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock snapped. “They’re a tangible marker of your worth to your country. You never take them off - haven’t since you first got them, I can tell by the wear on the chain - and you resent me for appropriating them without asking. That fact marks you as an honorable person - they _mean_ something to you. And _that_ dedication often means something to other people. Allowing me to usurp their original significance would be a tremendous benefit for our deception tonight.” He tossed the trousers loosely on the bed and picked up something off the dresser with his free hand. “Here.”

It was a collar. Probably the gaudiest one John had ever seen. Black leather, like most, but with incredibly detailed gold and silver filigree interwoven into a scrawled _SHERLOCK HOLMES_ encircling three-quarters of the circumference.

“You want me to wear this?”

Sherlock’s eyes darkened. “You like it?”

 _Christ, there’s a trick question._ The idea of being collared, of _belonging_ to someone with that type of public commitment - that appealed to John on some deep level he didn’t really want to think about. That much was probably obvious from the way his cock instinctively twitched the moment he realized what the object was. The idea of _that specific_ collar, though -

“God-awful tacky design, isn’t it?” Sherlock grinned, a touch of the manic in his smile. “Lord, my brother will hate it. Worth every penny.”

John couldn’t tear his eyes from the thing. “You want me to - to collar me?”

“Just for tonight.” Sherlock reached for John’s hand, turned it palm-up, and pressed the collar into it. The leather was cool and impossibly smooth. He did the same with John’s other hand and repeated the gesture with the dog tags. “Think of it, John - your dog tags on my collar. Symbolic. Proclaiming to everyone we see tonight that you’re an honorable man, a person of worth, and I’m too vain and self-absorbed to appreciate what I have. The perfect set-up.”

“Why would you want that?” John squeezed the tags tighter in his grip. “And why would I?”

Sherlock lowered himself onto the footboard of the bed - not sitting, exactly, just perched. “Ah. You’re concerned.”

“Should I be?”

“I’m a detective, John.” The man flashed a small, proud smile. “The only consulting detective in the world. I’m trying to prevent an assassination at my brother’s soiree tonight, but I have yet to uncover the identity of the assassin. Or the intended target. Observing is easier when people underestimate me.” He cocked his head, oddly birdlike, and studied John a long moment. “As for you . . . it could be dangerous.”

“You say it like that’s an incentive.”

“You get off on it.”

John wasn’t entirely sure his denial would sound plausible even to his own ears, much less to his hyper-observant client’s, so he kept his mouth shut.

“Exactly.” Sherlock pushed off the bed again, pulled out a jacket and socks and shoes to match the trousers already sitting on the duvet. “Twenty minutes left to get ready, now - we need to hurry.”

John eyed the small pile of clothes. “You forgot the shirt.”

And Sherlock’s wicked grin nearly dropped him to his knees again. “No . . . I didn’t.”


	3. Chapter 3

He felt bloody ridiculous. It was bad enough standing naked in a stranger’s bedroom, debating dog tags - it was infinitely worse to be thrown unceremoniously in the back of a cab wearing everything except a fucking _shirt_. The suit jacket felt oddly silky against his bare shoulders, the waistband of the trousers strangely tight against his bare waist - Sherlock had refused to give him back his red pants, as well. The edges of John’s scar peeked clearly through the hole, advertising to all and sundry that John’s body was no longer perfect. (Not that it had ever been _perfect_ , really, but he’d been in damn good shape for over four years. The forced inactivity during recovery had taken some of that from him, too.) The dog tags dangled heavily from the ridiculous collar, tapping against his sternum whenever he moved, and John couldn’t decide whether he was more humiliated or turned on.

They had come to a compromise on the collar. John consented to wear it - and the dog tags - but _he_ put them on himself. And if he chose to take them off, at any point during the night, Sherlock would immediately extricate the two of them from the party and deliver him back to Adler’s, no questions asked. The compromise had been Sherlock’s suggestion, but somehow that little bit of autonomy had been exactly what John needed to not feel out of his depth anymore. He could do this, could parade around bloody well half-dressed and wear someone else’s fake collar and pretend he was in a kept relationship, and it was all okay as long as he had what amounted to a tangible safeword.

And because Sherlock Holmes was bloody _gorgeous_. It wasn’t just the bespoke suit, although that helped. It was in the line of his neck, his posture, the imperious way he quirked one eyebrow when John wasn’t moving fast enough to please him. He wasn’t just a dominant, he was a fucking powerful one and John came over a bit wobbly just _thinking_ about what that man could do if he were so inclined. Command absolutely radiated from him, even when he wasn’t actively trying to enforce his will on anyone, and the feeling was rather like that of standing too close to a blazing fire - obviously dangerous, blindingly so, and yet the danger was a large part of the appeal. John couldn’t help but want to draw as close as he dared.

“Stop worrying,” Sherlock growled, snapping John back into the present. “It will be fine.”

“I wasn’t-”

“You were obsessing about the collar. And about being in public this evening. It’s your first time as a contracted pleasure servant; it’s natural to be nervous. It’s also incredibly annoying - you think too loudly.”

John blinked. “Err . . . sorry?”

“Hrmph.” Sherlock turned back to look out his own window, although John would have bet a great deal that the man already knew exactly where they were and had timed to the second how long it would take to get to their destination.

It wasn’t that easy to turn off, though. John watched the London scenery scroll by, but it was impossible to get into the right sort of mood. He finally decided it was better to ask point-blank than to dither all evening.

“What exactly do you need me for?”

Sherlock turned and gave him a _look_ , which had John blushing from head to toe.

“Not - I mean, this isn’t a sex party, is it?”

“With _Mycroft?_ ” Sherlock turned vaguely green. “God, no. It’s all politics and window dressing.”

“The - this . . .?” John gestured vaguely to his bare chest.

“It’s about me showing up with a partner at all,” Sherlock answered. “I’m rather notoriously difficult to get along with, which I’m sure is a shock to you. I’m betting that bringing my ‘personal sub’ will throw some people off-balance enough to let me observe them more clearly. Moreso given that my sub is someone I so obviously don’t deserve.”

John ran a pointed look down his client’s lean body. Sherlock was immaculately put-together, even in the darkish confines of the backseat of a car. He was attractive, he must have _known_ he was attractive - he’d practically flaunted it in Madame Adler’s parlor. He had the body and natural command of a dominant who could get any damn sub he wanted-

“John.” Sherlock caught John’s chin in a firm grip, forcing his head up so their eyes met. “I promise I will explain later, but we’re almost there and you’re still nervous. That won’t do. May I put you under, just a bit?”

John would have been lying if he’d said those eyes and that rich voice weren’t already putting him into subspace the tiniest amount already. Sherlock Holmes _oozed_ command, and it was amazingly fucking sexy. He managed to wait a second or two before nodding, but somehow he doubted Sherlock was fooled.

“Excellent.” Sherlock’s grip transferred to the back of John’s neck, cupping his nape with a firm pressure which immediately started doing delicious things to his insides. “John, I want you to **listen. Head down.** ”

 _Ooh_ , there it was, that slither of sensation down his spine, his submissive tendencies swelling up to override his conscious anxieties. Every single thought in his mind disappeared, replaced by a quivering silence. Listening for more. John dropped his chin to his chest and closed his eyes.

“ **Breathe**. Long, slow breath in, long, slow breath out. That’s it.” Sherlock kept his grip tight, just this side of pain, but it was exactly what John needed. “I’m going to tell you what everyone will see in you tonight. Tonight, you’re not John Watson, personnel number 4267. Tonight you’re just John, my personal submissive, ready and eager to obey all my commands. Shivering with the need to bend to me, to let me have my way with your mind as well as your body. That’s all you need to do, all you need to be. Leave the worrying to me.”

 _Oh fuck_. That did sound bloody fantastic. Sherlock’s fingers and thumb traced tight furrows against John’s skin just over the collar - _his_ collar, now warming to his body heat - and John could feel himself moaning and leaning into the touch. He was already so bloody far gone, and Sherlock hadn’t done more than talk to him-

“Shall I tell you what you look like? I think I’d like to. You look _desperate_ , John. The suit does fantastic things for the lines of your body, emphasizes your army-straight posture and your musculature. No one will mistake you for anything except ex-military. The collar is positively grotesque by comparison - gaudy and tacky and completely out of place on your magnificent throat. Dog tags, army dog tags, on a collar like an actual bloody dog. Normally you’d object to that but right now that turns you on, doesn’t it? Being humiliated like that?”

John moaned helplessly - Sherlock was right, so right, it was a turn-on when he put it that way-

“Your chest, now,” Sherlock continued, pulling John’s collar tight and then letting it go again just as quickly, the contrast sudden enough to leave John seeing stars. “The scars are a map of your achievements in Afghanistan. How many men did you save, John, before that bullet sent you back here? You couldn’t even keep count.”

He _had_ , once upon a time, but then war was war and if he counted the victories he had to count the losses, too, so John had stopped trying.

“Everyone can see it, see the scars. You don’t have to hide them - they’re your badge of honor, of survival. Everyone will see them and assume you’re a dominant, or at least a switch - and that I’m a royal fucking bastard for forcing you into this, for twisting you into my submissive. They’ll both pity you and envy you, John, but they’ll pity you for the wrong reasons and envy you for the right ones. Pity because they’ll think you don’t really want this, and envy because _they_ do. Because you’re going to have the most intense, most amazing night of your life. You’ve never had a dominant like me, have you?”

John wordlessly shook his head no.

“That’s right.” Satisfaction positively dripped from that rich baritone voice. “You’ll do exactly what I need of you, make me proud of you tonight, and I’ll take you further down than you’ve ever been. **Ask me,** John.”

“Please.” John had to wet his lips, his mouth was so dry, he was practically panting-

**“Ask me.”**

And the force of dominance in Sherlock’s tone was enough to smash through all John’s remaining resistance. “Please,” he said again. _Sherlock wants it, so it must be all right._ “Please take me apart, put me under. Please let me submit to you. I want it, want to make you proud of me. I need-”

“Yes, perfect,” Sherlock interrupted, shifting his grip so he could trace small circles through the short hair at the base of John’s skull. “You’re marvelous, you know that? But we’re here, so it’s time to put on our show. Any time you need me to give you another little touch, just say please - I’ll know what you mean. I’ll take care of you.”

John closed his eyes and slumped against his dominant’s chest. This was good, it was fine, Sherlock was amazing-

“Come, now,” Sherlock said with a hint of humor in his voice. “Up - it’s time to meet my brother.”

***

“A rental, Sherlock, really?” Mycroft Holmes’s lip curled slightly in disgust, but he kept his otherwise-perfect polite stance just at the top of the stairs to the ballroom as Sherlock and John entered. “A bit pedestrian, even for you, but I suppose I shouldn’t have expected any more.”

“John, this is Mycroft. Mycroft, my sub, John.” Sherlock performed the introductions deliberately backwards and with a bored wave, as if he couldn’t be bothered for more, and maybe he couldn’t. John had already deduced there was no love lost between the two brothers. “Do keep in mind, dear brother,” Sherlock drawled, “that I am here on your behalf. I should think you’d refrain from antagonizing me unduly until I’ve prevented your upcoming disaster, no?”

“Behave,” Mycroft said with no inflection whatsoever. Then, with the minimum possible expected decorum, he afforded John a single nod of acknowledgement and turned to murmur something into his sub’s ear. She stood slightly to the side and behind him, head down, although in her case it seemed more because she was texting on her Blackberry than out of any natural submissive gesture. _Not actually a submissive, then_ \- playing a role like him? John eyed her as surreptitiously as possible while keeping his head politely lowered, but then Sherlock wrapped a firm arm around John’s waist and dragged him down the stairs to the ballroom and he lost his chance.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time they had finished two laps around the room, socializing with the little knots of people scattered here and there, John was both thoroughly aroused and thoroughly glad he wasn’t required to hobnob with these sort of people on a regular basis. There was a limit to how much chatting he could stand when his only possible conversation partners were either besuited men with peerage titles after their names or the women half their ages on their arms. John tried to keep his military posture best he could, despite his leg, and stuck close to his client.

“You're the distraction,” Sherlock whispered in his ear during a lull in the introductions. “And you’re doing brilliantly.”

“Please.” John shifted a little closer, trying not to be obvious about it, but he needed something, needed-

“Easy,” Sherlock murmured, reading John’s distress in his tone, and snuck his hand up the back of John’s jacket to run two elegant fingertips firmly down his spine. “ **Relax**. You don’t need to do anything but be seen, right now. Watch how they’re eyeing you - see the man in the navy suit, there near the windows? He runs half the banks in London. And he’s so jealous of me having you that he couldn’t even finish our conversation - he excused himself to go get a drink, but he never made it to the bar. Just as far as that alcove, where he’s been sulking and eyeing you for the last ten minutes. _Blindingly jealous._ His wife’s a switch, not really all that interested in dominance games with him anymore, and he’s _aching_. She’s got a sub on the side, someone who works for them - gardener, perhaps, or a handyman. Our banker, though - ooh, he’s looking again. Hold still.” And then he grabbed John’s jaw - rough but not cruel - and brought their lips together.

And oh. _Oh_. John felt his spine melt under the combined pressure of Sherlock’s hand at the small of his back and fingertips capturing his chin and the feel of Sherlock’s mouth, _Christ_ his mouth, lips and teeth and a tiny hint of tongue, just enough to make them both want more. The kiss only lasted a few seconds, nothing socially unacceptable, but John was shaking by the time Sherlock let go.

“Watch him walk away,” Sherlock whispered deliciously, directly into John’s ear. “Watch his gait. He’s trying desperately to cover up the fact that he’s bloody hard, just from watching me snog you. Look at what you do to him.”

John looked. And he’d be lying to himself if the thought of eliciting that reaction in someone - even a complete stranger - wasn’t flattering. But it was the fact that it was _on Sherlock’s behalf_ \- that he was doing everything tonight because his dominant wanted it - which brought the observation from “mildly arousing” to “bloody hot.” And it was seeing Sherlock’s reaction to his submission, the heat in his eyes and the proud angle of his chin, which kicked “bloody hot” to something absolutely indescribable. John wanted nothing more than to be dragged into some abandoned alcove and snogged senseless, and if _that_ didn’t make him feel like an awkward fifteen-year-old -

“John.”

He blinked and looked back up at his client. Who had a bloody smirk on his face. _Crap._

“I think,” Sherlock said slowly, “that we both need a drink. I’m going to go investigate the last few people I haven’t chatted with yet - see that woman in the red dress, with the bifocals? Go bring me something. I’m not picky, as long as it’s not too sweet. And then I’m going to pull you off to the side, somewhere we can whisper without anyone overhearing us, and I’ll tell you _exactly_ what I plan to do to you when we get home.”

It took all John’s military training to keep his spine straight and his feet moving as he wove his way through the crowd toward the open bar. He had no idea what his client had in mind, none whatsoever, but the possibilities were enough to have him mostly-hard already. It felt strange to not have pants, too, nothing constricting him or getting in the way of his erection as it did its level best to escape the confines of his trousers-

“Doctor Watson?”

“Hmm?” John started at the hand on his shoulder, only slightly surprised to see Sherlock’s brother behind him.

“This way, please. We have a few things to discuss.”

 _“Discussing”_ things with Mycroft Holmes wasn’t really high on John’s list of things he wanted to do right at that moment. Quite a long ways below “retrieve drinks” and “get dragged off into a corner by Sherlock Bloody Holmes and listen to him murmur deliciously dirty threats in that seductive voice of his,” actually. John raised his hand, the beginnings of a polite rebuff, but Mycroft caught his wrist and growled softly.

“ **Now** , Doctor Watson. **Follow me**.”

 _Well._ Domming someone without their permission - _especially_ a relative stranger - was so rude as to be bordering on unforgivable, but what surprised John even more was the fact that Mycroft’s dom voice was . . . lacking? The words were right, the tone was right, but obeying wasn’t the _compulsion_ it should have been. Not that he was really free to laugh it off - having extreme submissive tendencies was a royal pain in the arse sometimes, and this was one of them - but John found himself following Mycroft feeling more bemused than bewitched.

They ended up in a largish room away from the main corridor. John’s first impression was _library_ , although that didn’t feel quite accurate - there were certainly floor-to-ceiling bookcases lining two walls of the room, but the decor was too casual for something so formal. Parlor? Withdrawing room? Did posh people use terms like that anymore? John took a few more steps past the doorway to put some space between himself and Mycroft and decided it was probably easiest to just wait this out. “What do you want?” he asked.

“I want to know how you know Sherlock.”

 _Ah - overbearing brother, then._ “I may be wrong, but I believe that’s none of your business.” It came out rather more casual than John expected, but that was just fine because Sherlock would have appreciated John being rude to his brother anyway. Not carte blanche, of course, but close.

“I see - this _is_ business, isn’t it?” Mycroft crossed his arms and leveled a serious look in his direction. “You claim to be a personal escort for hire, yet you’ve never done this before. And _somehow_ you end up with my brother for your very first client.”

John crossed his arms, too, mimicking Mycroft’s stance. “Seems that way, yes.”

“And you didn’t know him before today.”

“Again - none of your business.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. **“Kneel.”**

“You do realize that’s rude, don’t you?” It was taking every ounce of willpower John had not to comply, but he’d be damned if he was going to kneel for that smug git-

“You heard him.” A new voice, a different voice. John whirled around and found himself face-to-face with - oh, he hadn’t gotten her name, but the collared assistant with the Blackberry. Who, he couldn’t fail to notice, was a _much_ more powerful dominant than Mycroft Holmes was. **“Kneel.”**

His knees went out from under him. At the last second, John managed to throw himself to the side, landing flat on his stomach instead of on his knees. _Little victories._ There were footsteps, then a pair of black high heels came frighteningly close to his head and she was nudging his cheek with her toe.

“I believe my employer was asking you some questions about Sherlock,” she intoned in a bored voice. “ **Talk**. How did you meet him?”

John bit his lower lip so hard it drew blood. He wasn’t going to give in like this, wasn’t going to let them use his submissive side to get to his client-

**“Mycroft!”**

Sherlock’s voice made all of them jump - at least, John assumed it did, although he couldn’t see more than the lower part of the assistant’s shin from his position flat on the floor. More footsteps, almost stomping in anger, and then Sherlock was there and John twisted his torso to see better and _Christ_ , Sherlock’s eyes were like liquid fire as he stared down his brother.

 **“Sit in that chair and keep your mouth shut, Mycroft,”** Sherlock growled.

The man hesitated for a second, two, then slowly and deliberately paced over to the chair and sat. Sensing a pending sibling confrontation, John started to sit up-

 **“No,”** Sherlock said, his inflection flat, and _actually pressed his foot down_ between John’s shoulderblades. Just over part of his scar. John froze, torn between horrified fascination at the scene unfolding before him and mortification that even just this much from Sherlock had him _so bloody hard._

“I am furious with each and every one of you,” Sherlock said, each syllable clipped and precise. “Mycroft, you are being an insufferable prat and I won’t stand for it. Anthea, you should know better than to play with my toys. You both ought to be more worried about the anticipated assassination attempt tonight - an event which prompted you to _actually ask for my help_ , Mycroft, I’ll have you remember.”

“He’s not what he seems,” Mycroft countered, not quite as stridently as his brother but combative nonetheless. “The report was that you picked him up in a brothel this afternoon - really, Sherlock? You’re entrusting this operation to a complete stranger?”

“As always, you see but don’t observe.” Sherlock replied. “John has been my personal submissive for nearly a month now. Or did you think I loaned him one of my own suits for tonight? One I had tailored eight inches short for absolutely no reason?”

“You could have chosen an escort based on the size of the suit you already had,” Mycroft countered.

“Ah, yes, so I chose a size which would have been too short for the majority of British males. Do use your head, brother dear.”

John forced his body to relax under the weight of Sherlock’s foot. This was obviously something well above his head - figuratively as well as literally - and it’s not like they wanted his input, anyway. It _was_ odd that his suit fit him so well, but maybe Mycroft had a point?

But then it didn’t matter, because the weight on his back was gone and Sherlock was nudging him over onto his side with the toe of his shoe. John blinked up at his dominant - his _client_ \- and tried to make sense of the stern expression on Sherlock’s face. Anger, frustration, and . . . resignation?

“Don’t think I’ve forgiven you, either,” Sherlock said coldly. “You know better than to disobey me like that - when I send you for drinks, I expect you to retrieve drinks and not take side trips to go submit to other doms. Clearly you need a reminder.”

John swallowed hard. Surely Sherlock couldn’t hold him responsible for his brother’s actions? It’s not like John _wanted_ to be dragged away from the party-

“Mycroft, I fear I will need a few minutes to reprimand _my_ submissive.” The stress on _“my”_ was subtle, but obvious. “I assume you have somewhere else to be? Some cake to eat, perhaps?”

“Not at present, no,” Mycroft replied, his tone as bland as Sherlock’s. “You wish to convince me that Doctor Watson has been your submissive for the past month and just _coincidentally_ living at Madame Adler’s brothel in the meantime? Prove it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and heaved a dramatic sigh. “Always the voyeur, aren’t you? Fine, stay and watch. I won’t tolerate any interference, though.” His gaze dropped down to John, his expression impassive. “I trust it will be blindingly obvious that John and I have a history together. Do be of some use, though, brother dear, and lend me your riding crop?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decent-sized update, this time :-) Probably nothing next week - I'll be at DragonCon, which has been consuming my life lately - but expect probably two more chapters after this one.

_Shitshitshit_. John knew he was probably dangerously close to hyperventilating, but he couldn’t seem to get his autonomic nervous system back under control. Sherlock was looking down at him, face perfectly neutral, and it was all John could do to not start whimpering right there. He curled up into a fetal position, not quite wrapped around his dom’s legs, exquisitely on the edge between _too much_ and _panic_ and _oh dear god please yes_. He didn’t even know what he’d plead for - mercy? Or for whatever punishment his dominant was envisioning?

Sherlock took the decision out of his hands (not unexpected) by nudging John’s shoulder upward with the toe of his shoe. “ **On your knees** , seated on your heels. Jacket off - you can leave the trousers and shoes on. Eyes on the floor and knees tightly together, hands on your ankles.”

John hastily did as he was commanded, levering himself up to kneeling and shucking his suit jacket. He was bare above the waist except for the collar and dog tags, now, and he could feel the weight of Mycroft’s gaze assessing him from somewhere off beyond the periphery of his vision. It didn’t matter, though, because Sherlock was looming over him, all six plus feet of dominant malevolence. Even though John kept his gaze squarely on Sherlock’s shoes, he could feel the anticipation prickling through every square inch of his bare skin as Sherlock considered.

High heels clicking over to the edge of the room, then back - the assistant returning and Sherlock saying “thank you” and then the smooth tip of a riding crop gliding gently over John’s good shoulder. He shivered.

“Ever-expressive,” Sherlock murmured. “I’m not going to have you count this time, because I haven’t yet decided how many strikes you deserve for disobeying me, but I still expect you to thank me after every stroke.”

 _Right. Because we’re pretending we’ve done this before._ John licked his lips and nodded.

He expected Sherlock to start right away, but the dominant merely stood there, watching, for what felt like hours. He traced the leather tip of the riding crop over John’s shoulders, his back, along the edges of the collar, through his hair, down over his chest, across both cheeks and temples. John closed his eyes and let everything else fall away. This wasn’t so bad. The tickle of the leather on his skin and the chill of the air combined to constrict his nipples to sensitive little peaks, making him jump when Sherlock abraded them with the crop, but then that pliant loop skittered over his abdomen and it was all John could do to hold still.

There was an impatient rustle from Mycroft behind him. “You did imply this was punishment.”

And Sherlock chuckled darkly. “Oh, foreplay is the most important part. Isn’t it, John?”

John started to say something, to agree, but then the tip of the riding crop was forcing itself into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue, and all he could do was groan. The taste and smell of it invaded him, filled him up. He wanted to choke on it, wanted Sherlock to push that stiff leather further and further back into his mouth until he couldn’t swallow and his eyes started to water. Wanted Sherlock to follow it up with something else - his fingers, his cock, anything. John was painfully hard in his still-fastened trousers, but he knew Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate him squirming so he forced his hips to stay still.

“Good,” Sherlock murmured. “Remember the last time we did this, remember how long I kept you just on that edge. Remember how you were hoarse from begging and then you couldn’t talk at all, could barely even moan. Remember how exquisite it felt, just you and me, when you took all the punishment I gave you and I decided to reward you for your obedience. I want you to be thinking of that now.”

It was a trick, just a silly trick for some sibling feud, but John could visualize it just the way Sherlock was describing. He worked his jaw forward, closing his lips around the pungent leather, fellating it as if it could feel the heat of his mouth. Sherlock allowed it for a long moment, then drew it away and braced a hand in John’s hair.

“You do remember,” he said in a dark voice. _Not completely unaffected, then._ “If you do well, John, I’ll reward you again tonight. And I do so want you to do well.”

John wanted it too. He wanted to please Sherlock more than anything else in the world at that moment, wanted to turn himself inside-out and cede control of his mind as well as his body. He held perfectly still as Sherlock knelt before him, knees bracketing his own. _Breathe._

And then even breathing was no longer his to decide, because Sherlock had grabbed his dog tags in a firm grip and was dragging him down by his collar. It didn’t choke him, didn’t incite that instinctive panic that would normally come from someone’s fingers that close to his trachea, but it forced him to fold almost entirely in half with his face pressed to his dom’s lap and in that position he couldn’t take more than superficial breaths. What little conscious brain John had remaining abruptly switched to just trying not to hyperventilate.

“ **Easy** , John,” Sherlock whispered in his ear, leaning low so his lips wouldn’t be visible to either of their onlookers. “ **Breathe** , in and out, as slowly as you need. You’re doing beautifully, following my direction better than I could have asked for. Just let go and let me guide you - we’re putting on a show, of course, but that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy this. **Relax** and trust me. This is part of the role.”

Sherlock’s trousers smelled like him - soap and a hint of sweat and something crisp; John couldn’t quite put his finger on it but it was delicious. His eyes and ears and nose and skin were all full of his dom, full of how Sherlock’s cock was only inches from his mouth, full of longing to tilt his head forward and taste-

 _Crack._ The first swat with the riding crop made John jump. It wasn’t even all that painful a blow, just a firm impact between his shoulderblades over his mid-thoracic vertebrae, but it was enough to make him jerk in surprise. Sherlock still held the dog tags in an iron grip, which meant the movement caused the collar to bite into the nape of his neck. He couldn’t suppress the little wriggle of his hips to shift the material of his own trousers against his suddenly interested erection.

“None of that,” Sherlock said, more clearly, and dropped a second _smack_ just at the base of John’s spine. “ **Thank me** , now.”

 _“Thank you,”_ John breathed.

“Twice - you’ve had two hits. This won’t be over anywhere near as quickly if you don’t follow the rules.”

“Mmmmm - thank you and thank you sir.” Some part of John’s brain noticed that Sherlock’s veiled threat was actually an out - if he just kept silent Sherlock would dial back the intensity - but that was the last thing John wanted right now. He wanted to melt into his dominant’s lap, wanted to be whipped until subspace overwhelmed him whether he welcomed it or not. Even knowing that they were being watched - _because Sherlock allowed it to be so_ \- was enough to ratchet everything up that much more.

 _Crack crack_. Two more swift blows, not all that powerful but placed with devastating accuracy just under each shoulderblade. High enough to make John arch in automatic reflex but not high enough to land on the twisted scar tissue over his upper scapula. Once again the hand at his collar stopped his body from actually moving, bent his head down at a humiliating angle, but John managed two more _“thank you”_ s without actually whining aloud.

“Don’t muffle yourself,” Sherlock said quietly, leaning in so close his lips touched the shell of John’s ear. “For all my teasing, Mycroft is really not a voyeur. Thinking about my sex life makes him quite as green as thinking about his makes me. He’s staying to prove himself right, not because he finds this arousing. Me, on the other hand . . .” The hand with the riding crop snuck downward, over John’s ribcage, and Sherlock pinched John’s nipple sharply. _“I love seeing you as you come apart.”_

“Oh god.” John’s entire body shuddered. It brought a twinge to his bad leg - already pushed past its usual limits by his position on the hard floor - but the sheer proximity of _Sherlock_ was enough to keep him so deep in subspace he didn’t bloody care. Sherlock could have stripped him right then and there and pushed that tantalizing cock inside him-

His moan sounded obscene even to his own ears. Sherlock snorted - laughter and amusement - but quickened his pace. The blows were raining down steadily, now, from shoulderblades to the waistband of his trousers, and they were blending together into a wonderful slow burn which warmed John’s skin and turned his insides to jelly. He didn’t censor the noises coming out of his mouth, groans and pleas and _thank you_ s and breathless little cries with barely any words left in them. Sherlock was murmuring, too, a legato wash of encouragement and praise and appreciation for how John was letting him do this, was allowing him to take charge so thoroughly. John just closed his eyes and inhaled the musk emanating from Sherlock’s obvious arousal and allowed himself to be used.

“John. **John**.”

He blinked up at his dom, still dizzy from subspace, high on endorphins and not entirely sane. Sherlock just pressed his lips together in a thin line and pointedly dragged him up and forward by the collar until John was sprawled across his lap and sagging onto his shoulder.

“Magnificent. You were magnificent, John,” Sherlock whispered. “I love seeing my marks on your back - knowing that I put them there, that nobody else has been touching you like that.” He still held John’s dog tags in a tight grip, anchoring John’s forehead against his trapezius, but with his free hand he started carding through John’s hair and _fuck_ it felt wonderful. “You and I both know that wasn’t a punishment - that was foreplay. All of it. Because when we get back to my flat, John, I’m going to take you apart so thoroughly you won’t be able to put yourself together again. You’ll have to cede control of that, too, letting me find you piece by piece and reconstructing you like a locked room murder. And when you’re back to yourself, you’ll always have this night with my name stamped all over it in your memory, a reminder of the time you were so blissed-out you could barely remember to breathe on your own. I’m going to leave the jacket in here, now, so when we go back out to the party, everyone will see the marks on your back and know you’re mine.”

 _“Mmmmmmmmm.”_ It was all John’s vocal chords were capable of producing right then.

“Deep breaths,” Sherlock encouraged. “We’ve got all the time in the world.” He pressed a small kiss to John’s temple, then laid his cheek against John’s forehead as he turned to glare at his brother. “Do you mind?” he snapped, his tone completely at odds with his relaxed pose. “I believe I’ve proved my point, but this part is rather private. We’ll be back out in a bit.”

There was a rustle of fabric against fabric - Mycroft extracting himself from the armchair. He cleared his throat and made a small embarrassed noise. “My apologies - I see my surveillance was somewhat lacking in this regard.”

“I’d greatly appreciate if you and your ‘surveillance’ would keep your bloody noses out of our business,” Sherlock retorted. “John’s not an exhibitionist and I’d like to respect that.”

Mycroft hmmmed, but his footsteps said he was leaving. The sound was followed by the click of his assistant’s high heels, and then there was finally silence and John and Sherlock were alone.

Sherlock released his grip on John’s collar immediately, although his other hand continued its soothing circles against John’s heated back. His touch was light, incredibly gentle, but it still evoked shades of the way the riding crop had bitten into his muscles and John couldn’t resist wriggling closer to Sherlock’s body, pressing himself against the man as fully as he could.

Which Sherlock interpreted correctly. **“Up,”** he commanded, and re-settled them onto the low divan under the window. He tugged and prodded until John was lying on his side with his head in Sherlock’s lap and Sherlock could comb his fingers through John’s hair. Within a minute, John was floating lightly through subspace again, anchored only by Sherlock’s hand at his waist and fingertips on his scalp. Sherlock permitted it for a few more minutes - five at most - but then he stopped and helped John upright.

“So.” _What does one say after an encounter like that?_ John had submitted to doms before, of course, but never so . . . thoroughly. And to someone he didn’t already know well.

“Better?” Sherlock asked, obviously noting but pointedly ignoring John’s awkward self-consciousness. “We need to get back out there - I’ve talked to nearly everyone, but I still haven’t been able to pinpoint the assassin. The target is clearly Mycroft, at least - no one else here has the right connections and was also certain enough to attend to make this event a reasonable venue for murder. Too many hot-headed doms out there with no understanding of subtlety.”

Since this brought to mind thoughts of pots and kettles and a distinct sooty hue, John kept his mouth shut. Although . . . “Mycroft is a switch, isn’t he?”

Sherlock cocked his head and shot John an assessing look. “He tries very hard to hide that, but yes. How did you know?”

John shrugged. “He tried too hard - he had all the posturing and the tone right, but it wasn’t very commanding. I would have been able to throw it off if it hadn’t been for his assistant.” He snorted. “Are the two of them together, then? I’m assuming her collar is just to reinforce his dominant persona - he’s only about a four, but she’s a solid eight at least.”

“Four, eight,” Sherlock mumbled. And then suddenly sat up straighter. “Wait - you mean you can read that? Not just dom-sub-switch, but degree also? This is on a ten-point scale, I’m assuming?”

“Yeah - you can’t?”

Sherlock shook his head no.

“I’m surprised,” John admitted. “I mean, I guess I’m not, because usually it’s hard to read anyone who’s not at least moderately more dominant and you’re one of the few natural tens I’ve met. But I assumed you’d do that . . . that deducing thing. Like you did to me earlier.”

“So I’m a ten - you’re a one on this scale, then.”

“Yeah.” John grimaced. “It sucks, I won’t lie. But the one advantage is I can place nearly everyone pretty accurately, and I can tell pretty quickly who to avoid. You were right, at Madame Adler’s - I was the only sub below a three in that room.”

“Pretending to be submissives because it pays better.”

“Mostly.”

Sherlock sat up straighter, his eyes nearly glowing now. “Tell me about tonight, then - how does everyone rank?”

 _“Everyone?”_ John shook his head. “We can go back out and I’ll tell you who I remember, but -” - he could feel himself blushing - “- I’ll admit socializing didn’t have my full attention, before.”

“Ah.” Sherlock’s lips twisted into a definite smirk.

“Two other switches pretending to be dominants, though, and one other collared dom besides your brother’s.”

The detective immediately went preternaturally still. “Who?”

John closed his eyes and tried to remember. “Didn’t get his name - he was here with the Chinese ambassador. Also a dom. She was - what, Chan? Shan? The man with her was a skinny bloke, short, dark blue collar. Kept his eyes down, but was fidgeting and kept sneaking glances around the room when he thought he wasn’t being watched. Probably about a six or a seven. Graceful movements, like a gymnast or an acrobat.”

“Or an assassin,” Sherlock said darkly. “Come on - we’ve got to go tell Mycroft.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Where is he?”

The collared assistant gave Sherlock a once-over and pointedly returned her attention to her phone. “Working.”

“Anthea . . .”

“He’ll be back down in a minute. He received an urgent call.”

“Come on.” Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and towed him away, down a long hallway and around a corner before breaking in to a full-out run.

“Sherlock!” John called, trying vainly to keep up. The man had bloody long legs.

The detective whirled around and paused, though, his eyes crackling with energy. “It was a trap, don’t you see? You and Mycroft disappeared from the gala, and our assassin started to panic.” He surged forward to press a quick and forceful kiss onto John’s lips, then he was charging away down a hallway again. “Upstairs, John! The study!”

Sherlock obviously knew his brother’s house fairly well, so John concentrated on just not slowing him down too much. “House” was probably the wrong word - it was a bloody mansion, complete with a narrow flight of servants’ stairs toward the back. Sherlock wound his way through the service hallways, the cluttered kitchen (incongruously modern amongst all the Victorian-style paneling in the rest of the house), and up the rickety wooden steps, John more or less at his back the whole time. John had never really believed people still _lived_ like this, servants and all, but it was obvious Mycroft Holmes had boatloads of money - it would take that much to even just maintain a residence like this one.

“Where are we going?” he whispered at Sherlock’s back in the darkened upstairs hallway.

The detective stopped, caught him around the shoulders, and stilled them both. “Mycroft’s study is at the end of this hallway,” he murmured directly into John’s ear. “Had to avoid the main staircase so we wouldn’t be seen. The assassin could be in there already, or he could be waiting for Mycroft to unlock the door after seeing to this so-called urgent phone call. A crisis manufactured to bring him up here, most likely. Just - listen.”

John held perfectly still and listened. He could make out a pale strip of light leaking out from under the door in question, but nothing else - no voice talking on the phone, no sounds of a fight, no assassin lurking in the darkened hallway ahead of them. Sherlock was listening too, that whole lean body tense with concentration, but then his hand slipped from John’s bare shoulder and he became an angular shadow, skulking silently toward the study door. John found himself wishing he had brought a gun. It was a stupid thought, given how he hadn’t held a weapon since Afghanistan, but the weight in his hand would have been a welcome balm. Guns were fantastic equalizers.

The silence was marred by a faint scraping noise coming from inside the study. Sherlock was still a silent shadow in the dark, but now he was at the study door and the strip of light was illuminating the toes of his shoes as he did something to the handle - picking the lock, John presumed. The scraping sound repeated itself, but less than a second later Sherlock was flinging the door open and launching himself through it. John cursed under his breath and charged after him.

The room was a mess - papers everywhere, a chair overturned, books knocked from their places on the bookshelf. John only had eyes for the two dominants in the middle of the room, though, engaged in a flurry of aggression toward each other. Sherlock clearly had the height advantage - and the weight advantage too, possibly - but the Chinese assassin was all lithe grace as he folded himself into impossible contortions in an effort to avoid Sherlock’s hands while still trying to lock his own around his opponent's neck.

Instinct took over. Hand-to-hand combat had never been John’s particular strength - he was much happier behind a gun and much more skilled with a needle or scalpel - but some things were beyond needing conscious thought and this was one of them. It took no time at all to vault over the fallen chair, grab the nearest heavy book, and swing it at the assassin’s head. One shot, slightly to the side of the occipital lobe, spine of the book impacting human spine as John followed through, and then the assassin was crying out and losing his footing as he fell. Sherlock was on him in a flash, slamming his forehead into the wooden floorboards, hovering until the man gave up and stopped fighting for consciousness.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock shot the assassin one last pointed glare, then darted around behind the heavy mahogany desk.

John positioned himself where he could see both - the assassin laid out cold on the floor, and Sherlock bending over his brother. “Is he-”

“Still breathing,” Sherlock interrupted. “He wasn’t expecting the assassin to be outside on the balcony behind him - needle mark at the base of his neck. He went down quickly, then.”

John blinked. “Not to be insensitive, but . . . an assassin who doesn’t kill?”

“Staged suicide,” Sherlock answered immediately. “There have been two others like this, in similar circumstances recently. The point isn’t the suicide, it’s - _ah_.” He plucked a piece of paper up from the mess on the desk and shoved it into his pocket. “ _Now_ we can call the Yard. Here, use my phone - it’s under Lestrade. Make sure to tell him to send an ambulance - our assassin will have fallen out the window.”

“I - what?”

Sherlock tossed his phone to John, who caught it purely out of reflex. “Call.”

John dialed the number for _Lestrade_ in the phone contacts. The voice on the other end sounded put out, at least until he ascertained it wasn’t actually Sherlock on the line.

“You’re not him,” Lestrade said. “Is Sherlock hurt? And who are you?”

“A friend.” _No time to go into details, even if I had a better answer._ “And it’s not Sherlock hurt - it’s his brother. Mycroft. Sherlock said to call.”

“He never calls - he always texts.”

“He said to send an ambulance, too.”

“Shit. Where are you?” There was a muffled sound - the man covering the mouthpiece of the phone in order to converse with someone else on his end.

John managed to relay the address, but he declined to wait on the line until the Yard got to the scene. Sherlock had abandoned his hold on his brother, instead gathering up as many papers as he could reach and stuffing them all in the rubbish bin.

“Quickly,” he barked. “You get this; I’ll see to our assassin.”

It wasn’t a command, not a real one, but it was near enough to have John immediately at attention. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Burn every scrap of paper you can find that’s not already in a book. Mycroft will have backups of the important ones, but we’re about to have a dozen people trampling through here and he’d be furious if any government secrets walked out with them. You can do it on the balcony in just a second.” He hefted the now-slightly-conscious assassin over one shoulder in a fireman’s carry and nodded toward the sliding glass doors. “If you would be so kind?”

John just blinked at him.

**“Open the doors.”**

_That_ kicked him into motion, albeit still with an instinctive hesitation. Sherlock was more focused on hauling the assassin outside, though. With a surprisingly powerful shrug, he launched the man off his shoulders and over the railing. The body landed with a sickening crunch on the cobblestone pathway below.

“Right.” John shook off the _oh my God did he actually just do that_ and looked at the bin in his hand. “Papers.”

They worked together, John throwing everything he could into the bin and Sherlock digging a lighter out of Mycroft’s pocket. By the time they had the bin blazing on the balcony, Mycroft was starting to stir and they could hear sirens in the distance.

Superior prat or not, Mycroft still needed medical attention, and John tried to do what he could. Which was admittedly not much, but at least he was able to verify that yes, Mycroft was uninjured (other than whatever the assassin injected into his system) and no, he shouldn’t be moving just yet no matter what Sherlock thought about it.

“Shut up and let me do my job,” John snapped.

“Your _job_ is to assist me,” the detective retorted.

“I’m assisting your brother right now, so sod off. What was this all about, anyway?”

To John’s surprise, Sherlock actually chuckled. “Political assassination. He underestimated them - I’m never going to let him live this down.”

John boggled at him. “You’re _laughing_ at - oh, never mind. Any idea what he was injected with?”

Sherlock smirked and pulled a capped hypodermic needle out of his pocket. “Took this off our friend before he ‘fell.’ I recognized it from the other two supposed suicides, though - it’s just a sedative. He had to make it look like Mycroft had second thoughts about committing treason.”

“He was-”

“Dear God, what is it like in your tiny brain? No, John, Mycroft wasn’t _actually_ committing treason - if anything, my brother has a love for queen and country and all that rot strong enough to rival yours. No, the papers on his desk were just to make his superiors _think_ he was spying for the highest bidder. It wasn’t enough to kill him - they had to kill any projects he was working on, any political decisions he’s made recently. They wanted to assassinate his character as well as his person. Then, even if his ‘suicide’ were to be found suspicious, the treason would still be unquestioned. It all fits, don’t you see? Any papers the assassin could steal were merely a bonus.”

“Christ.” John looked back down and ignored his grinning client for the several seconds it took to assess Mycroft’s heart rate. “Barely fifty beats per minute - getting better, but he should still probably get some oxygen and be checked over, just in case.”

“No time - here they are now.” Sherlock moved over to the door and exchanged nods with the silver-haired man just entering the room. “Ah, Lestrade - I’d like to introduce my sub, John. It’s his expert medical opinion that Mycroft is a stuffy prat in need of some embarrassing medical tests, and also that the man outside fell off the balcony. You may want to get someone on that.”

Lestrade, to his credit, gave John only the briefest of once-overs (gaze stuttering over the scar, the collar, the bare chest) before nodding politely and turning to bark orders at the officers behind him. Within a minute the small room was over-full of bodies - a medical team tending to Mycroft, officers attempting to corral the foot traffic to a single pathway through the least disturbed parts of the floor, and Lestrade overseeing the whole circus. John found himself backed against a bookshelf, as out of the way as possible without actually leaving the room.

“Hallway,” Sherlock murmured, suddenly at his side. The two of them made their way out, Sherlock’s arm solicitously around John’s waist, until they were finally free of the crush and Sherlock could crowd John against the wall with his body, caging him on either side with his long arms.

“Endorphin high,” Sherlock said in a low voice. “Fight or flight response.”

“Mmmmm.” It was all John could say with such a powerful dominant looming over him.

“I have a better idea,” Sherlock growled into his ear. “I’m going to take you home and absolutely take you apart. You’re going to come gasping my name, _begging_ me to do whatever I like with you. And I’m going to keep you on the edge like that for _hours_. You have no idea how much you’ll let me do to you, John Watson, absolutely none at all. And I’m going to completely ruin you for anyone else.”

_“Fuck.”_

Sherlock dipped his head lower, breathing into the side of John’s neck. “You’d better pray the cab comes quickly,” he said against John’s prickling skin, “because I’m not inclined to wait.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah . . . sorry for the delay, everyone! This was supposed to be the last chapter, but apparently Sherlock is a seriously kinky bastard and had a lot of ideas saved up for when he finally got John all to himself and the scene got away from me. Expect another chapter of (mostly) filthy smut after this one, in which the boys finally both PWP themselves into exhaustion :-D

They did have to wait, of course, but that wasn’t terribly surprising. DI Lestrade had questions, which Sherlock was quick to either ignore completely or ridicule with a supercilious tone which had even John irritated with him in no time flat. The detective inspector seemed used to it. Then they were free to leave, though, and Sherlock was wrapping a possessive arm around John’s waist and dragging him down the main staircase and past the cream of Britain’s political elite and John didn’t even care that everyone was staring at his collar and his complete lack of shirt or jacket. Sherlock had _promised_ , damn it, and neither of them wanted to wait one moment longer than necessary before the real fun began.

Sherlock was touching him the moment the cab door closed, pressing a discreet thumb into his lumbar vertebrae with a fierce pressure which bordered on _too much_ and John could only lean his head back against the seat and stare blankly at the faint stains on the cab’s ceiling and try very hard not to actually pass out before they got to the good part. Sherlock’s phone buzzed, but he made no move to check it.

“Not important?”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock glanced at the screen, tapped out a brief one-handed reply, then shut the phone off entirely and stuck it back in his pocket. “Anthea is perfectly capable of seeing to my brother’s empire for the time being - I’ve got more important things to worry about.” The hand on John’s back drifted lower, toying with the waistband of his trousers and dipping below to trace a single finger along the top of the crack of John’s arse. _No pants_ , John remembered, and shivered.

“Anything I ought to know about before we get back to Baker Street?” Sherlock murmured. “Limits you’d like me to respect?”

“I . . . don’t know.” Common sense said John should have had a canned answer for this - he _was_ signed up to do this sort of thing for the next year, after all - but Sherlock’s hand on his skin seemed to be scrambling his thoughts. “Is there a ‘usual’ in this case?”

“Not as such, no.” Sherlock slid his hand around to John’s hip, under the trousers, pressing and massaging as it went. “I will say I’ve never gotten sexually involved with the submissives I play with - arousal is inherent in the game, of course, but I generally find the mental aspect of dominating another human being to be more than enough stimulation for me.”

The disappointment John felt following Sherlock’s matter-of-fact statement was . . . surprising. Just hours ago, he had been forced to work himself up to face the probability of having to suck a stranger’s cock - so why was the idea of a non-sexual session with Sherlock so discouraging? The man was gorgeous, true, but John’s own preferences had always steered strongly toward women. His submissive side would be equally satisfied with a non-sexual scenario. So why did this have John swallowing his discontent? He cleared his throat, looked down, and prayed Sherlock wouldn’t call him out on exactly what a pathetic creature he was.

“You were hoping for sex.”

 _Shit._ John didn’t even try to meet Sherlock’s too-knowing eyes, but he managed a slight nod. Admitting it just made it worse-

“I’ll take that into consideration.”

_Wait, what?_

Sherlock tugged him closer, close enough for John to tuck his bowed head against his client’s lapels. Sherlock’s other arm came up and around him, now, holding him steady against the motion of the cab, caging him in with surprising strength. The slide of the bespoke suit against John’s bare back made him shiver, but then Sherlock was pressing a gentle kiss into John’s hair and John suddenly realized the taxi had stopped.

“We’ll finish this discussion upstairs.”

Sherlock paid - never letting go of John’s waist - and they walked back up to the flat in silence. It felt different this time. The eclectic clutter was the same (was that a _human skull_ on the mantel?) but the moment they were through the door, Sherlock had John flung around and pinned by the shoulders against the wall and he was nibbling at the nape of John’s neck with a force that was quite possibly going to leave bruises in the morning. It was electrifying. John could feel himself dropping back into subspace, just a bit, even without Sherlock uttering a single command-

 **“You, naked, now,”** Sherlock growled, without letting up in the slightest.

 _Ooh, yes, that._ John scrabbled at his flies, practically tearing off the button in his haste. The intensity of Sherlock’s kiss-bites only increased, the force pressing John’s body tight against the rough wallpaper, leaving him no room to slump even the necessary amount to work his trousers down off his thighs. He belatedly remembered his shoes - wasn't going to get those off, not without leaning over - but then Sherlock was unleashing two stinging slaps on his bare arse and the instinctive arch of John’s spine pinned his cock against the textured Victorian-style wallpaper. The trousers were completely forgotten in the tsunami of sensations assaulting his body all at once.

“Faster, John.” Sherlock leaned in to press John’s body flat, chest to shoulderblades, the fabric of his shirt abrading John’s still-throbbing back in a delightfully distracting way. John fumbled helplessly with the waistband of his trousers, now sagging around his thighs, but he couldn’t reach any further. His frustrated whine was purely involuntary, but Sherlock responded anyway with another slap to John’s arse and a quick pinch to the tender skin on his inner thigh.

“Is that how you want it?” Sherlock murmured into his ear. “Your legs pinned together by your trousers, half-off like you’re on your way out the door and have better places to be? Forced to waddle if I tell you to move? Fine, have it your way. **Sofa, now. Arms straight out and hands flat against the wall behind you.** Don’t touch your trousers - you’ve already made your choice.”

He stepped away, the air suddenly cool against John’s bare back and arse, and John shuffled the best he could toward the sofa at the end of the room. He felt ridiculous, knew he _looked_ ridiculous, but that was all part of the point, it was what Sherlock wanted-

 **“Stay,”** Sherlock commanded, and disappeared into the bedroom. John held perfectly still on the center cushion of the sofa, back military-straight, his chest feeling uncomfortably exposed by the position Sherlock put his arms in, the strain a tight ache through his shoulderblades. The trousers sagged sadly around his thighs, forcing his legs together more than he’d have chosen for himself but not enough to actually restrict his ability to move his knees. Part of him wished they bound him more thoroughly.

His biceps were on fire with the effort of keeping his arms extended and not resting on the back of the sofa by the time Sherlock came back, a large canvas duffel over his arm. Sherlock stopped in the middle of the room and watched him with half-closed eyes for quite a while - several minutes, probably, although John’s sense of time was already becoming as fuzzy as the rest of his thoughts. He kept his eyes open and his gaze mechanically forward, allowing the dominant to examine him, ceding control of the encounter to Sherlock.

“Good,” Sherlock murmured. “You’re doing so nicely. Arms starting to sting a bit? You may answer me verbally.”

“Yes,” John admitted. “Aches. A bit.”

“Not trembling yet, though - think you would hold it like that if I told you to? Another thirty minutes, another hour?”

 _Fuck._ John licked his lips and tried to gauge the level of strain on his biceps and shoulders without actually moving them. “Are you commanding me?”

Sherlock’s piercing gaze turned predatory. “You’ll know when that happens. I prefer to dom sparingly - it makes your submission all that much more delicious when you _think_ , doesn’t it?”

John thought longingly of the lovely subspace he had already experienced at the mercies of Sherlock’s riding crop and kept his mouth shut.

“Oh. I see.” Sherlock stalked forward and dumped the duffel on the ground next to the sofa. “It’s not about making the choice, with you, is it? It’s about _giving it up_. You’re astoundingly submissive - dangerously so. You can’t let your guard down around anyone, for fear of them catching you by surprise with an offhanded command. And then your secret would be out, wouldn’t it?”

 _Hardly a secret - I’m a bloody pleasure servant, after all_. But Sherlock hadn’t said to speak so he held his tongue.

Not that he needed to actually talk for the detective to understand his thoughts - Sherlock merely cocked his head and let the silence stretch between them. Another minute, two, John’s arm muscles practically on fire now with the strain of holding still-

“Do I frighten you?”

John blinked, his attention snapping back to his dom. “You . . . don’t seem very frightening.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. John was sure he’d made a mistake, was too flippant, but then Sherlock let out a soft puff of air, a tiny fragment of a chuckle, and sank down on the sofa beside him. “That’s it, then. I don’t scare you, but you scare yourself. Because you know what you’ll do. You know if I told you to stay like this all night, you would. I could drop you into subspace and give you dangerous commands and you’d do lasting damage to your own body because you couldn’t tell me no.”

John closed his eyes, unwilling to actually nod, but Sherlock cupped his cheek gently and John knew he understood.

“Do you know why true submissives are in such demand, John?”

He shook his head no, still without opening his eyes.

“It’s because you’re so unbelievably rare. Almost as rare as truly strong dominants - the ones and tens on your scale. And nobody except a true dominant can really appreciate what an amazing gift you have.”

John swallowed back the lump in his throat which was rising in response to Sherlock’s gentle tone.

“Most doms are in it for show,” Sherlock continued, still caressing John’s face with a feather-light touch. “The wealthy ones like to hire a ‘sub’ to smack around for a while and it makes them feel powerful. It’s all posturing. They can’t conceive of the exquisite gift you’re offering me, because they can’t feel the difference. I’ve always been able to tell when subs are faking, though - for me, this is about making you enjoy yourself, drawing my pleasure via osmosis.” He dragged his fingernail down John’s cheek, making him shiver. “I make you crave my command and you submit and I can revel in the chance to fulfil that need in you.”

“Hardly a gift,” John mumbled. And then caught himself, ashamed for having spoken out loud, but it was too late to take it back now. “You did purchase my services,” he continued, more slowly. “I was bought and paid for.”

“Oh, you think that was random chance?” Sherlock’s fingers trailed down to the collar around John’s neck, traced the line of the leather against his skin, whisper-light and gentle. “Mycroft was right, you know. I did have that suit tailored specifically for you.”

John opened his eyes with a snap, the idea jarring him out of his pleasant trance. “But you only met me today.”

“Yes.” Sherlock leaned in and touched the tip of his tongue to John’s carotid. “But I was . . . made aware of your contract very early on. A friend of mine knew you from your medical school days, knew you were a strong submissive, and happened to learn about your appearance at Madame Adler’s. He suggested I might like to meet you.”

“A friend?”

“Mike Stamford. Teaches at Bart’s.”

“Ah.” John closed his eyes again, mostly to avoid the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze, cataloguing every expression on his face. “All that deduction in the car, then - you knew.”

“No. I deduced.” Sherlock mouthed up to John’s earlobe, took it delicately between his teeth. “And you have no bloody idea what I intend to do with you tonight. But you’re welcome to do some deducing of your own.”

The pain in John’s arms slammed back into his conscious mind with startling force. All but forgotten with Sherlock’s proximity, but still very much present. “I - you’re going to hurt me, obviously.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Sherlock’s free hand snaked up and pinched John’s right nipple, _hard_. “Does it count as pain if you don’t even notice it hurts?”

They would both have had to be blind not to notice the way John’s cock jumped at the sensation, though, and Sherlock slid away to the edge of the sofa to dig through the duffel. He hadn’t said anything one way or the other about John peeking, so John turned his head to watch while trying to keep the rest of his body perfectly still. Biceps on _fire_ , straining, but Sherlock wanted him to stay still and damn it, he was going to prove himself worthy of this dom.

“No need for safewords tonight,” Sherlock said in a perfectly neutral tone of voice as he rummaged. “Part of the challenge for you is going to be staying completely honest with me as I take you apart. If you say stop, I’ll stop - but you better make damn sure that’s what you really want, because I’m not inclined to let you dither.”

John didn’t _dither._ He never _dithered._ “Understood.”

“Wrists.” Sherlock held up a pair of lined leather cuffs and cocked his head, assessing. “Are you ready to rest your arms now?”

“God, yes.”

“Fine, then. Left first.”

John couldn’t resist rolling his shoulders, just a bit, as he brought his arms back to a more neutral position in his lap. The waves of relief washed through his entire body, dragging a sigh from his lips. Sherlock merely fastened the cuffs on, one at a time, and ran a brusque palm up and down both arms to chafe the circulation into returning.

 **“Arms out again,”** he commanded, and John obediently resumed his former position. Not without some internal protest, but that voice was quickly silenced when Sherlock produced two shortish chains complete with carabiners and fastened each leather cuff to a chain and then to the back corners of the sofa frame. John could retract his arms no more than an inch or two before the chains pulled tight. The angle also kept his torso tipped slightly backwards from true, forcing his back against the sofa cushions. The tight pull did allow him to relax his sore muscles a bit, though, letting the chains bear his weight-

“ **Watch** , John.” Sherlock pulled out a length of rope, thinner than the chains, and deliberately let a loop drop to graze against the erect form of John’s cock. The contact was barely there at all, yet John couldn’t drag his eyes from the sight. Sherlock slid it back and forth, letting its slight weight be the only source of friction - John’s cock leapt again anyway.

And Sherlock grabbed it, squeezed just slightly too hard. “You’re not going to come anytime soon,” he promised. “There’s a long way to go before we get there.”

 _“Fuck,”_ John whispered. Or maybe just thought - he was slipping under so fast he couldn’t tell anymore.

“Shame about the trousers,” Sherlock continued with mock regret. “They do get in the way, but we can work around them. Like so.” He braced his forearm against the fabric, transferring the weight of it to John’s thighs, and looped the rope expertly around the base of John’s bollocks underneath his cock. Three, four parallel loops, then one between the testicles to force them apart. The rope was tight enough to make John gasp, but not likely to be dangerous - just enough to have him painfully hard. And he was so, _so_ hard already . . .

Sherlock slipped a shiny metal ring down over one end of the rope, then tied the whole thing off over the base of John’s shaft with a square knot and a jaunty bow. The ring sat right in the center, offering a perfect tether point, and John suddenly thought he had a pretty good idea of what was going to come next.

“Ankles.” Sherlock didn’t bother with cuffs, just wrapped a fresh rope around John’s left ankle several times, tied it off, then fed the end through the ring tied to John’s cock and repeated the knot on John’s other ankle. He left enough slack for John to _almost_ straighten his legs to a comfortable position, but not quite. The chains held him off-balance on the sofa, tipped back onto his tailbone, the weight of his legs pulling him forward but his vision partially blocked by the crumpled trousers still pulling them together. A reminder of his failure to follow his dom’s instructions. Sherlock maneuvered John’s nearer leg as far forward as it would go, then plucked the taut rope like the string on a cello. The vibrations went directly to John’s cock. Sherlock gave a little hum of approval and directed his attention back to John’s face.

“ **Talk.** Tell me how good it feels.”

“So, so good . . .” John had to consciously drag in a breath, had to remind himself how to form words. “Sherlock please.” He didn’t know what he wanted, what he was begging for, but the pressurepleasurepain on his bollocks was intense and all-encompassing and he’d do anything Sherlock wanted, anything at all, if only his dom would _do_ something-

“Hmmmm.” Sherlock leaned away to dig in the duffel again. “One more thing. **Open your mouth.** ”

John’s jaw dropped open of its own accord.

He expected a gag, possibly something humiliating and dirty and breathtaking. He didn’t expect Sherlock to thrust two fingers onto his tongue without even looking up. John wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to suck on them or wet them or just keep his jaw loose, so he merely opened wider and melted under the feeling of Sherlock pressing down firmly, holding his tongue in place, fingertips just shy of triggering his gag reflex. John couldn’t move his jaw and it was mortifying and a bit frightening and the whole thing made his head swim. Sherlock held them there with a steady hand even as he extricated another coil of rope from the duffel and brought it back into John’s line of sight.

“I’ll tell you when I’m ready for you to speak again,” Sherlock said casually. “Last bit here - can’t have you squirming too much and ruining my work.” He slipped the end of the rope through the ring at John’s groin and ran it up to the D-ring on the collar. The army tags jingled as Sherlock tied a one-handed knot, his knuckles brushing the underside of John’s chin. He cinched the other end of the rope in a bit, experimenting with the length and tension, and _fuck_. John’s strangled moan echoed loudly in the room.

He quite literally _couldn’t move._ His arms were bound firmly just backward of his midline, his jaw (and by extension, the rest of his head) was held tightly in place by Sherlock’s unyielding fingers, and his legs and back were both already tense from the strain of not straightening and increasing the agonizing pull on his bollocks. The position left him feeling incredibly vulnerable, his arse tipped forward and accessible even though he was nominally still sitting, and he was certainly just a breath or two from passing out due to the entire contents of his circulatory system having relocated to his cock. Sherlock merely sat on the sofa next to him and watched for an impossibly long time.

The legs were the worst, John decided fuzzily. He could deal with having to keep his spine curled, with his arms being spread indefinitely, but the strain of having to hold his knees half-bent and keeping their natural weight from tearing his balls in two had his quadriceps in agony within the first minute. He tried to lower his thighs, just a bit, but the pressure on his bollocks had him actually seeing stars and he quickly raised his legs to their prior position.

“Gorgeous - so beautiful,” Sherlock purred. “If I put you under now, if I told you to freeze, how long do you think you could hold this position? Hours?” He withdrew his fingers from John’s mouth, wiped the saliva on John’s bare chest, then brushed away a renegade trail of drool from John’s chin with the side of his knuckle.

He seemed to be waiting for an answer, so John swallowed and tried to remember how to form words. “Um. Don’t know.”

“What about if I added an extra incentive?” Sherlock pulled something from the bag - a flogger, small and black and harmless-looking. A smile flirted at the corner of his lips as he watched John’s reaction. “That’s a yes, then,” he said firmly. “I want you to listen to me, John. **Listen.** Let go of everything else and **focus on my voice.** ”

John shivered and let his eyes drift closed. _This_ was what he needed, the smooth baritone washing over him, telling him what to do-

“ **Let yourself drift** , John. You’re doing so well. You’re already flushed and aching and eager to come, but we’re not going to do that yet. Right now, it’s time to just let everything happen. **Let me take care of you** , let me take control for a while.”

 _“Yes,”_ John breathed.

And was rewarded with a contented little noise from Sherlock. “Mmmm - yes, that’s right. I don’t need you to think for a while, so let your mind settle down and just float. You feel good, don’t you, John?”

And - despite the ache in his shoulders and back and thighs and groin - John couldn’t resist murmuring an agreement. The signals from his body had all faded away - not gone, not entirely, but like he was sensing them through a thick blanket. Muffled and warm and comfortable.

He barely twitched at the first sting of the flogger impacting his bare arse. His hips jerked slightly, curling him further into himself, but the sting quickly faded into a wonderful blossom of heat across his skin and John had no trouble relaxing into it. Sherlock was standing, now, prowling around him and swatting his arse with tight little flicks from different angles, but it was fine. It was all fine.

The impacts across his chest brought him out of his daze somewhat. John realized his eyes had already been open, but he hadn’t been actually seeing anything for quite some time. Now he blinked and recognized Sherlock looming over him, using his full height to bring the flogger down across John’s pectorals. The blows had his body naturally straightening, reversing the awkward fetal position he’d ended up in after the attention to his arse, and the pull on his bollocks was suddenly well past background noise and veering sharply into proper pain-

Sherlock looked down at John’s face, his own expression impassive, and silently reverted his blows with the flogger to John’s arse.

This was good. It was beyond good - it was amazing, incendiary, better than anything John had ever experienced before. Sherlock switched back and forth, arse and chest, curling and uncurling John’s body with cruel efficiency, until John was shivering and damp with sweat and he could see a fat drop of precome dribbling down his aching cock. He still wasn’t going to come, not with his bollocks tied up and stretched as they were, but his body was taut and quivering on that razor-thin edge of orgasm and Sherlock held him there for what felt like _hours_.

And then Sherlock was leaning over him, hips pressed against the useless trousers confining John’s legs, letting John relax his straining thighs and rest the weight of his legs on either side of Sherlock’s waist, supported by the fabric of the crumpled trousers. John gulped in air in deep breaths, suddenly unsure whether he’d been breathing at all, or whether Sherlock had taken control of that for him, too.

“Almost done with the sofa,” Sherlock murmured, his voice rich and dark with promise. “Your muscles need a rest. But first . . .” He ran one long finger along John’s cock, from base to crown. It came away with a milky droplet clinging to the tip. “First we need to get rid of this for you. Because I’m not going to let you come yet, John, but _this_ -” - he indicated John’s erection - “-is going to be an inconvenience.”

John’s brain was blissfully, completely devoid of words as he watched Sherlock bring that long finger to his own mouth and lick off that single droplet.

“Mmmmm.” Sherlock moaned around his own finger, closing his eyes for a moment, then suddenly he was completely _present_ and focused on John with that piercing gaze and it was all John could do not to squirm. “Have you ever been milked before?” Sherlock asked.

_Oh god._

“I see.” Sherlock smirked, a superior little smug smile, and slipped a small bottle of lube from his pocket. He squeezed a few drops out over the head of John’s cock, the viscous liquid sliding down in a not-entirely-pleasant sensation, but then his fist came to cover where the lube had spread and John threw his head back with a choked moan.

“That’s it - relax for me.” Sherlock ran his fingers up the sides of John’s cock with firm, decisive motions. “I won’t even need to stimulate your prostate directly, John - you’re practically ready to burst already.”

John looked down, only to see another dribble of milky fluid emerge from the slit at the head of his cock. Sherlock wiped it away and resumed his slow, tight strokes. It took ages - an eternity hanging right there on the edge - but eventually Sherlock straightened and withdrew his hand and John realized he felt drained and empty and no less absolutely bloody desperate than he had before.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

“Come here,” Sherlock replied. “Let’s get you untied and let your circulatory system catch up, then we can start the really interesting part.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again this last chapter got away from me, schedule-wise, but I'm hoping it's worth it :-)

There was something tender in Sherlock’s touch as he undid the ropes. John held perfectly still and allowed his client to position his limbs this way and that, restarting the blood flow and massaging his sore muscles. Eventually Sherlock gathered him up into his lap and John just melted into the comforting warmth of his dom’s body. They stayed like that for a long time - John curled up like a sleepy kitten, Sherlock running a gentle hand through his hair and murmuring soothing sounds against his temple. John’s arousal wasn’t gone, but it was content to hover around the edges of his consciousness while he basked.

A loud gurgle surprised both of them. “Sorry,” John murmured, still not willing to surface completely from his comfortable lassitude. “Ignore it.”

“You haven’t eaten since lunch,” Sherlock answered. “And I’ve been demanding quite a bit from your body this evening. Come.”

He led John by the hand to the kitchen. A series of commands and announcements (not actually dominating, just that ridiculous self-assurance that John would obey) resulted in John kneeling on a Union Jack pillow in the center of the room, head bowed, while Sherlock rummaged in the refrigerator for something to eat.

“No allergies, correct?”

“Mmmm.”

Sherlock huffed and stepped close enough to draw John’s chin up with his forefinger. “Need more than that - verbally, please.”

John blinked away a bit more of the torpor. “No allergies. Don’t much like mushrooms, though.”

“Noted.” Sherlock let go of his chin and went to transfer something from the fridge to a plate and then to the microwave. John kept his head exactly at the angle Sherlock had left it, allowing him to track his dom with his eyes as Sherlock moved around the kitchen. The pillow under his knees helped quite a bit with his bad leg - _either that or a residual effect of subspace_ , John amended. He hadn’t felt this floaty for so long in years, and it was absolutely fucking fantastic. It would have been better if Sherlock ever finally let him come, of course, but even his halfway-there erection resting against his thighs couldn’t draw his attention from the sight of such a powerful dominant doing such a mundane thing as heating up leftovers. Sherlock noticed, of course, but ignored him until the food was done.

“John.” Sherlock finally turned, leaning back against the counter with every sign of indolence. " **Stand up.** I want you on your back on my bed. Pick a position that’s comfortable for you, because you’ll be in it for quite a while. I’ll be in shortly. **Go.** "

John went. His old clothes (including the red pants) were still strewn over the floor, but he ignored them. The bed looked huge - acres of snowy white duvet dominating the room - and John had to swallow back a moan at the thought of Sherlock sleeping there every night, his dark hair in stark contrast to the white pillows, moonbeams highlighting those razor-sharp cheekbones-

 _Right_. His fingers itched with the need to reach down and adjust his cock, but he refrained. Climbing onto the bed was like ascending onto a cloud, soft beneath his hands and knees, and best of all it smelled like _Sherlock_. John rolled onto his back and experimented with various angles for his limbs. Eventually he settled on his legs out straight and slightly apart and his arms comfortably at his sides. It wasn’t a come-hither pose, nor was it a position he’d actually sleep in, but it was comfortable and he could hold it forever if his dom wanted him to.

 _Just a dom, not my dom,_ he reminded himself. The possession was the other way around, if anything. Only for this one evening, of course-

“Excellent.” Sherlock’s voice was nearly a purr as he entered the room, carrying the plate and some silverware and a tall glass of ice water. He deposited them on the bedside table, then sat on the edge of the bed and ran a confident hand over John’s chest and abdomen. “You still enjoying yourself?”

John glanced pointedly down toward where his insistent erection made it very clear it was ready for more.

“I love seeing you like this,” Sherlock murmured. “No restraints, no props, just me and you and all the delicious possibilities. Speaking of which . . .” He reached for the plate and scraped the contents onto John’s stomach. “Ravioli. No mushrooms. I hope that’s acceptable.”

John let out a strangled sound as the slimy pasta hit his skin. Not hot enough to cause pain, but slightly too warm to be comfortable. It felt odd and wrong and he had to fight off the instinctive need to wipe it off, but he succeeded in keeping his body perfectly still.

“No need to be shy; I know you’re hungry.” Sherlock retrieved the fork and knife and delicately cut a square in half before popping the piece into his own mouth. The sensation of the butter knife drawing over John’s abdomen had him sucking in a taut breath, but Sherlock was gentle and the knife wasn’t actually sharp enough to pierce his skin even if he’d used more force. John’s brain couldn’t get past _holy fucking Christ KNIFE,_ though, and it took several seconds for his lungs to catch up with the rest of him.

“Don’t worry, we’re sharing. Here.” Sherlock speared the other half with the fork - the tines digging into John’s abdominal muscles - and held it up in front of John’s face. John opened his mouth, started to lean forward to accept the bite-

“Mmm, not quite yet. You may have a pillow, though.” The forkful disappeared, and a moment later Sherlock was pushing a pillow under John’s head. The slight angle was just enough to allow John to watch as Sherlock slowly and deliberately lowered the ravioli to drag along the inside of John’s knee. The slick warmth made his leg twitch, but John forced himself to stay as still as he could. When Sherlock brought the morsel back to John’s mouth, he merely opened his lips obediently and let the dom place it on his tongue.

The next bite went the same way - Sherlock cut it in half, one portion disappearing between his own agile lips, the other teasingly waved in John’s face before being removed. This time Sherlock slid it along the crease where John’s thigh met his torso before allowing John to taste. The ravioli was actually quite good - slightly spicy and tangy and just the right consistency - but there was something inescapably _dirty_ about how Sherlock insisted that every bite John took was drawn over his skin first.

And as they went, that aspect began to overwhelm the actual eating. When Sherlock dragged a sticky trail up the underside of John’s cock before slipping the pasta into his mouth, John could have sworn he tasted a hint of his own precome in amongst the familiar spices. And when the next bite was pressed gently to the underside of his bollocks before he was allowed to taste it, John couldn’t hold back a moan.

“Yes, that’s it,” Sherlock murmured, slipping another (clean) bit of ravioli into his own mouth. “Filthier when it’s your own body, isn’t it? Here.” He took a sip from the cup of water on the bedside table, then spat an ice cube back into his palm and let it rest against John’s femoral artery for a moment before popping it into John’s mouth. “You’re so bloody hard already - how much ice would it take to make your erection go away completely, do you think?”

John whimpered.

“Just like this, I mean. You’re halfway to subspace and I haven’t given you a single command since the kitchen. No ropes or cuffs or floggers in sight. No shortcuts.” Sherlock very deliberately used the next bite of ravioli to wipe off the leaking tip of John’s cock before pressing it between his submissive’s lips. “You’re a complete mess now, you know - sauce everywhere. Might take a while to clean it all up one ice cube at a time.”

He fished another one out of the cup and held it to the midpoint of John’s scrotum, firm against the skin. The cold was intense, wilting John’s erection somewhat, but there was also a surreal schism between the instinctive desire to pull away and the absolute fucking _need_ to press closer, to embrace the pain. Sherlock held it there long enough for the ice to start melting, the cold water trailing down over John’s perineum and tickling terribly. It took ages for it to register that the strange sounds filling the room were his own strangled breathing. Not that the dom was reacting - when the ice was half gone, Sherlock merely tipped it into John’s mouth and cut another piece of ravioli in two as if nothing had happened.

There was more ice, and more food, and John kept absolutely, completely still for both. He couldn’t entirely stop the trembling in his legs or the desperate whimpers coming from his throat, but for Sherlock’s sake he locked his muscles and tried to breathe and just watched as his client ate what to all outward appearances was a perfectly normal supper. John’s pubic hair was a sloppy mess of pasta sauce and smears of still-cool water and what was probably an unprecedented amount of precome. Although Sherlock was ignoring his erection completely, other than to drag ice or ravioli along it once in a while. John tried to gauge whether Sherlock was aroused - this had to be mutual, didn’t it? - but the dominant was still fully-clothed in that impeccable suit and there was no way to tell whether he was affected or not. That made it even more humiliating to be laid out nude on that pristine white duvet, of course, but everything was coming together into one big feedback loop and it was all driving the submissive part of John’s brain into a frantic overload.

The clank of the fork and knife against the empty plate roused John somewhat from his own brain. Sherlock was gazing down at him, impassive as ever. “Let me get a flannel. **Stay**.”

 _Like a bloody dog._ But John stayed in position until Sherlock came back, then let Sherlock manipulate his thighs and cock this way and that as he wiped up all the residue. He finished his ministrations with a delicious stroke over John’s erection, base to tip, then sat back with a contented smirk and cocked his head to one side.

“It’s still early and I’ve paid for the whole night. Do you want me to take you back now?”

John shook his head emphatically from side to side. “No.” _Fuck_ , he was so turned on . . .

“You want to keep going, then?”

“I -” John licked his lips and dragged in a steadying breath. “Please. Let me stay. Let me suck your cock.”

Sherlock’s entire body went perfectly still. “Say that again.”

“I want to,” John admitted. “I know you don’t ‘do’ this with your subs, but I can’t think of anything in the world I want more right now than for you to make me suck you off. Pull my hair and use my mouth and dom me and put me under until you come all over my face and down my throat. I want to give you that, please.”

Sherlock hesitated so long John was on the verge of tears. It was all too much - the whirlwind evening, the riding crop and the flogger, the almost-orgasm on the sofa, the mind-bendingly erotic supper-

 **“On the floor. Kneel.”** Sherlock stepped away from the bed with a strange quiver in his limbs and started undoing the belt of his trousers. His gaze was fixed on the crown molding in the corner of the ceiling, not paying attention to John at all, but John practically fell off the mattress in his haste to collapse at his client’s feet. His own arousal was shockingly easy to brush aside when faced with the prospect of finally getting to see Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock hadn’t given permission to touch, not yet, but John was going to look his fill unless his dom commanded otherwise.

And the sight, when it came, was better than John could have possibly imagined. Sherlock didn’t bother unbuttoning his shirt, didn’t even shrug off the jacket. The only concessions to necessity were the loss of his belt and the way his flies hung open and there it was, jutting out from the slit in his boxers, proud and heavy and full. _All for me, all on my behalf._ John figured he was probably drooling, but it didn’t fucking matter because the whole day had been building up to _this._

They both moaned when they finally made contact. Sherlock had one hand on the bedside table, bracing himself or just trying to keep his balance, John couldn’t tell which. His cock was warm and silky under John’s lips. John stuck to gentle kisses - just mouthing it, really - but there was something more erotic about this than the rest of the evening put together. Sherlock was preparing to lose control, just this once, and he’d chosen John as the instrument of his abandon . . .

 **“Suck me,”** Sherlock commanded quietly. " **Show me your best.** I’m going to fuck your mouth and you’re going to enjoy it, aren’t you?”

John whimpered, his jaw dropping open completely. _Use me, fuck me, do it-_

Sherlock planted a hand in John’s hair and leaned forward to slide his cock into John’s mouth. He tasted fantastic- sweat and soap and musky precome all against the backdrop of velvety-smooth skin. John groaned aloud and sucked in his cheeks, letting Sherlock take the lead but trying to present the best target possible. He may not have had a great deal of experience with male doms, but the mechanics were all rather obvious, weren’t they? Instinctive, at the very least - pressure and lubrication and movement. Penises were a hell of a lot easier to decode than whatever the fuck women had going on down there, anyway, some sort of carnal Simon Says with ever-moving goalposts you couldn’t actually see in the heat of the moment and _fuck_ , Sherlock was bucking up into his mouth and he couldn’t even raise his tongue from where it was pinned down inside his lower jaw and it was glorious.

“That’s it,” Sherlock groaned. “Take it, take it all. I want to see you gag on my cock. You don’t get to bloody _breathe_ unless I let you. I want to feel you fighting for air, and then fighting _that_ because you are still trying to be good, so good for me, John.”

His hips pistoned forward and back, his grip in John’s hair so tight it made John’s eyes water, but John dropped his jaw further and abandoned all semblance of control. This wasn’t going to last as long as either of them might have wanted, but the extended foreplay obviously hadn’t left Sherlock _completely_ unaffected. He was panting too, now, needy little gulps of air as he fucked himself with John’s mouth. The only sounds in the room were the wet slap of flesh on flesh and the staccato gasps as one or the other of them succombed to the need for oxygen.

John felt the final signs before Sherlock did. Even without using his hands, he was able to sense the tensing in Sherlock’s thighs, the fractured rhythm of his thrusts. Sherlock groaned loudly and withdrew until just the tip of his cock was brushing John’s lips. **“Open.”**

John let his jaw drop once again, eyes on Sherlock’s. The _I’m yours_ was silent but implied. The dom let go of the bedside table to pump himself vigorously, less than half a dozen thrusts, then he was coming all over John’s face and lips and tongue and John absolutely basked in it.

Eventually Sherlock stopped quivering and drew himself back up to his full height. John stayed right where he was, kneeling naked on the floor next to the bed, face and neck covered in warm stripes of ejaculate. Sherlock couldn’t seem to stop staring, couldn’t tear his eyes from the sight. “You look incredible,” he murmured.

John closed his mouth and silently returned Sherlock’s intent gaze. The dom’s hand in his hair gentled, morphing into soothing strokes instead of the punishing grip he’d used earlier. The sensation sent a shiver down John’s spine and directly to his cock, which was once again pushing itself to the forefront of his awareness-

 **“Back on the bed,”** Sherlock ordered.

John scrambled up from the floor and slid backwards onto the mattress.

“Now **watch**.” Sherlock slid one hand firmly against the nape of John’s neck under the collar ( _fuck, I’m still wearing his collar!_ ) and let his opposite forefinger drift across John’s cheek. It came away shiny with semen.

Sherlock’s eyes never left John’s face, even as he reached down to palm John’s cock. The hand at his neck kept him angled perfectly to watch his dom wrap those long fingers around his length and tease the length of his shaft away from his stomach, little light tugs which were barely more than a caress, but they had John _burning_.

“Please.” The world had narrowed down to those two points of contact, Sherlock’s hands on his skin, and the flood of heat infusing John’s whole body. “Please, I need - I need-”

**“Come for me.”**

And John came, an EMP of neurotransmitters shorting out his brain and his body in one glorious wash of sensation. Even in the midst of an orgasm, his body seemed to instinctively accept his dom’s will, his muscles shaking in relief but still locking up so he stayed exactly in the position Sherlock had requested of him. Sherlock supported him through the entirety of it, holding his head up so he could see how his own semen painted his chest and abdomen, some of it mixing with Sherlock’s in the vicinity of his collarbone. It was beautiful.

When it was done John was exhausted. There might have been protocol for this sort of thing - it’s not like he’d never had sex with someone before - but neither of them made a move for the still-damp flannel. Sherlock was lying next to him on the bed, still fully clothed (although he did tuck his cock back away), watching intently. The force of his scrutiny should have made John feel self-conscious, but it took several long minutes until anything except _fuck it I don’t care_ built up any real momentum in John’s brain.

“There’s a second bedroom upstairs,” Sherlock suddenly announced.

 _Shit_. John sucked in a breath and tried not to show how much he really just wanted to cling to his dom like a baby howler monkey climbing on its mother. At least Sherlock wasn’t kicking him out and making him find his own way back to Madame Adler’s alone. “You want me to spend the whole night, then?”

Sherlock blinked and frowned. “Of course - we already established that. Don’t be tedious.”

“Oh. Okay.”

John started to sit up, to retreat upstairs, but Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his thigh. “Where are you going?”

“Didn’t you want me to . . .”

“Not _now_ , John.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “For later. I’ll probably stay up all night sometimes, especially when I’m on a case, and you’d be more comfortable having your own room when you want it. Although obviously I would prefer you here, in my bed, as often as possible.”

It may have been the sex, but John was having a hard time processing everything. “Sorry,” he said automatically. “How often?”

“Every night in which I actually sleep, would be my preference,” Sherlock said.

“You’re . . . you want me for more than one night?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and threw his head back dramatically against the pillows. “Dear Lord, how do you ever get anything at all done with such an ordinary brain? Yes, John, I want you to move in with me. I plan to buy out your contract from Madame Adler in the morning. He opened his mouth, paused, and closed it again. “I don’t mean to - that is, I’m not _buying_ your contract. When I pay her off you’ll be out of debt free and clear. Not indentured to me, if that’s what you were afraid of, just . . .” He suddenly sat up and fixed John with a piercing stare. “You don’t have to contribute to rent if you don’t want. Or you can, if it’s important to you, although heaven knows my brother has enough cash to cover the both of us and he damn well owes me that much. We don’t even have to be around each other all that often if you’d rather-”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s rambling cut off abruptly, and John couldn’t resist leaning forward and pressing a quick kiss to those gorgeous lips. “What you’re asking is, will I move in with you?”

Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “I suppose that’s accurate.”

“And you’re offering this without intending to take over my debt. As an equal.”

“I’m not a fan of actual slavery, thank you.”

“Then yes.” John grinned at the confused look on Sherlock’s face. “What, you’re surprised?”

“I don’t . . . people don’t tend to voluntarily spend time in my presence,” Sherlock said in a small voice.

“They must not get to see your brilliant deductions and your incredible wit and the way you wield a flogger,” John said. “I’ve known you for less than a day and already I know that I want to see more. Of all of you,” he added with an unabashed glance at Sherlock’s cock, now tucked back into his pants but with the button of his trousers still undone. “Flatmates, then? Partners? And we can work our way into the dom/sub thing at our own pace, yeah?”

 _“John.”_ And Sherlock pounced, knocking him back to the bed with an overly enthusiastic kiss. “ _Yes_. Can I give you one more command?”

“Fire away.”

**“Stay here with me tonight.”**


End file.
